The Sword of Bhorgus was named for the first champion foolish enough to draw it, a warlord whose bones now grace the base of a brass throne in the Wastes. The blade is a thing of daemon-craft, its edge forever warm and faintly wet, and it sings — a low, hungry moaning that rises to a shriek when blood is near. To grip it is to feel a strength beyond mortal measure surge up the arm, enough to hew through shield and mail and the man behind them in a single stroke.
Such gifts are never given freely by the Dark Gods. The Warriors of Chaos who carry the sword into the lands of men know its price: it must be fed. In every battle the blade demands a kill, and if it is denied — if a wielder should sheathe it unbloodied or, worse, flee a fight — it turns its hunger inward, and the strength it lent becomes a wasting curse that gnaws the champion from within.
So the bearers of the Sword of Bhorgus can never rest and never retreat. They march always toward the next slaughter, driven by a blade that will devour them the moment they falter, until at last they fall in some nameless field and the sword lies waiting in the mud, moaning softly, for the next hand rash enough to lift it.
The reliquary continues
